Voices

The thread of the latest Write Poetry was exploring voices in poetry.

The first exercise was to write a poem that featured descriptions of a voice or voices.  This was inspired by the poem Voice by Ann Sansom.

Don’t 

Don’t use that whine-y
twist-me-round-your-little-finger voice.
It won’t get you anywhere. 

Don’t use that sulky
brattish tone with me.
It will get you nowhere. 

Don’t roll your eyes at me
uttering ‘mother’ in that uppity tone.
It will get you nothing.

Don’t bat your eyelashes at him
hoping your father will give in
to your pleading tones. 

What happened to please and thank you,
to pleasant speech and loving words?
They can get you everything. 

I didn't do the second exercise about writing in someone else's voice because I couldn't think of anything.

The third exercise was based on Answer to a Child’s Question by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.  In this poem we were to imagine what a bird, animal or plant might say.  I'm not sure I hit the brief but I'm happy with what I wrote.  And that's all that matters in the end.

Underground

It’s sunless here, below the surface
moving the earth to form
a passageway. Eyes blind in the darkness.

Senses on high alert
in case an earthworm or a slug
falls into my earthwork trap.

The soil, aerated by my efforts
as I live my subterranean life,
lies unappreciated by those above.

The thuds and gasses show
their displeasure as I pursue
my dark journey underground. 

I hope you enjoyed today's words.  Thanks for being here
Bernice

Long Haul

Whilst back to creativity and the latest poetry zoom with Sara-Jane Arbury, I still hadn't shaken off my trip when we were asked to write a poem about the passing of time.

(c) Eva Darron  (Unsplash)

Long Haul

The seatbelt sign

flickers as all around

settle into their seats. 

The clunking sound of

metal into metal.

Searching the inflight

entertainment for something

to while away the hours. 

Various announcements. 

No smoking, no vaping, no

lying on the floor.

No children’s blow up beds.

The meal is served.  Saving the planet

with bamboo knives and forks. 

But drinks in single use plastic cups.

Darkness falls.  The lights turned low

apart from the flickering

of numerous seatback screens. 

The lady across the aisle

seems to be watching the screen

of the person sitting in front of me.

Why?

After three films I try to sleep,

jealous of those who snore, softly,

open-mouthed for hours.  I manage

twenty minutes.

I walk up one aisle and down

the other, past the sleeping beauties

and the shining screens,

shadow actors playing out

their silent scenes.

Lights, action, breakfast.

Of course it could be lunchtime.

It must be somewhere in the world.

But after seven time zones

who knows what time it is.

The cabin crew decree it’s breakfast time,

although spinach and fetta slice

doesn’t sound like breakfast to me.

Slowly the chattering of passengers rises

almost drowning out the loud

thud

that signals

wheels down.

The crew sit down, no longer moving

through the cabin.  Strapped in,

leaning back, as

the ground rushes up to meet us.

The engines howl

as they are thrust into reverse.

The plane lands awkwardly veering

slightly left and right.

Will there be enough runway?

Sighs of relief as the plane comes

to a standstill.  Seatbelt sign off.

A rush to reach bags stowed

in overhead lockers.  Why do we do that? 

It takes so long for steps

and collecting cases in baggage reclaim.

But after seventeen hours trapped

in a metal tube, we want to escape

and finally reach our destination.

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

An odd poem plus two more

As promised, an odd poem.

To an armpit
Smooth or stubbly?
Hairy or shaved?
Smelly or perfumed?
Rarely sees the sun. 

Smooth as a baby’s bum
That changes as puberty hits.
Smooth skin wrinkles over the years
Making shaving more difficult
If that’s your preference. 

All parts of the body are necessary
But what does an armpit do?
It connects an arm to a body
A hollow under the arm 

A sweaty place perhaps
A term used to insult a place
A place to put our hands
To keep them warm in winter 

The May 'Write Poetry' zoom workshop was sort of about aging or certainly about time passing.  The first exercise was about writing about the passing of time and a body part.  I actually wrote this after the session and a bit tongue-in-cheek!

The second exercise was about choices made either by me or by someone else which impacted me.

Subject
Not good enough for science
Nor good at art
Lousy at languages
Really just a spare part. 

Allowed two ‘A’ levels
Rather than three.
No university application
Training college for me. 

No help from the teachers
For ‘failures’ like me
Despite being in the top
Two percent of the country. 

Decisions made for me
Based on my actions
I didn’t put the effort in
Which caused the school’s reactions. 

Now retired I look back
At choices made for me
How different the trajectory
If I had stood up for me. 

Should I regret the might-have-been
Or celebrate my success?
A life well lived. Good jobs, degrees.
Great friends, a home and health.
Forty years of marriage, a son
And three grandkids. 

Those that made the decisions
Are long gone now.
But did they drive me to impress?

The third exercise was about exploring life through numbers.  I feel I was a bit influenced by the song 'Once I was 7 years old'. 

Still counting
When I reached 30
I suddenly felt grown up.
My opinions seemed to matter
More than at 29. 

When I reached 40
The mother of a 3 year old
A 37 year gap
Me, a geriatric primigravida. 

When I reached 50
A champagne breakfast
Hosted by a friend
50 was the new 30
Although it didn’t feel like it! 

When I reached 60
The 3 year old was 23
And married.
We went to New York City
And took a carriage ride
Around Central Park. 

When I reached 70
Three score years and ten
There was a garden party.
Not a surprise party because
I don’t like surprises.
But the 23 year old, now 33
Surprised me with his wife
Facetiming through the television. 

And nearly 4 years on
Still counting,
Still reaching towards 80 

I’m aiming for 100
and a card from the King

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

Natural Creatures

This month's 'Write Poetry' zoom had a link with the creatures in the natural world.  Sara-Jane introduced each exercise with a 'mentor' poem.  One about fish heaven, one about a fly on a battlefield and the third a series of poems that were words-as-animals-as-words.

The first exercise was to choose an animal, insect or other creature and write about what that creature would think was heaven for them.

Rapture

No more twilight barking
Full sun
Warm on the coats
Of dogs.

Bountiful balls
To chase and retrieve.
Spherical,
Unpunctured,
Countless.

A cacophony of barks, shouting
The same joyful tune.

More balls, abounding treats,
No shortage of flavoursome food.
Unending playtime.
Unceasing sniffs.

Rolling in the sticky mud, clogging
Fur and feet.
Running in the ripples
Of the ocean.
Digging in the sand
Snout covered, sniffing the detritus
Of dead fish and seaweed.
Back fur squirming into the malodourous heap.

No humans threatening a bath.

The second poem inspiration was to look at a human event through the eyes of a creature.

The Dove

Drifting over the Mount of Olives
The dove eyed the quiet of the Garden.
Gently alighting on a branch
The dove prepared to rest.
Hidden by the foliage.

The peace disturbed
Marching, shouting
Lamps aflame.
Swords rattling.

The dove marked the moment
The man was constrained.
Peace returned to the garden
As the rabble move on
Rushing the man to judgement.

Catcalls, whistles, shouts of derision
As the man stumbled through the masses
Carrying his own device of death.

Unnoticed
The dove attracted by the possibility
Of food, followed the masses
To the hill.
But frightened by unnatural darkness
The dove remained aloft
Soaring to find another rest.

Fragments of fractured wood
Pounded into dust and mixed
With myrrh, lovingly prepared
To preserve the body.
Carried carefully by women
To the burial ground.

On her olive branch
The dove spied the women
Coming nearer to her roost.
The cries of the women
Disturbed the bird.

The dove took flight
Soaring above the empty tomb.

And lastly we were asked to write a poem using words-as-animals-as-words.  To be honest, my poem doesn't really reflect the task.  To find out the inspiration for words-as-animals-as-words look for poems by Barbara Juster Esbensen from her collection 'Words With Wrinkled Knees'.

Why butter?

Why not flutter?
Flutterby, not

 

Bouncing, flitting
Flittingby.

Kissing, caressing
Dancing along the flowers
Tasting with their feet.

A proboscis ‘straw’ to slurp
The nectar, juice or sap.

Why butter?
The gossamer winged beauty’s
Excreta resembles butter!

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

Oh my word!

On Wednesday, around 10.15am, I was sat in my pyjamas and dressing gown, text messaging with a friend about how I was struggling with returning to the Visual Narratives workshop.  At the same time I was playing with canal photos in Snapseed.

Nothing wrong with that you might say.  And rightly so.  Except that at 10.25 (still in PJs & dressing gown) I realised I was supposed to be in a Write Poetry workshop on Zoom which started at 10am!

I zoomed in with camera switched off and whilst people were writing their first poem, I nipped off and put a top on and combed my hair!  Phew!

Camera on I entered the fray!

Sara-Jane talks about a poem and then sets an exercise to write our own.  I missed the first exercise as I said.  It was based on the poem: The Laughing Receptionist in the GP's Surgery by Paul Durcan

The second poem was Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti.  We were asked to write a poem where we were trying to work out a conundrum or problem, using two voices.  I was so not in the zone due to my late arrival and bothered about not being dressed properly etc.  I had no idea what to write.  However I did write this:

A Poetic Conundrum 

What shall I write?
I don’t want to appear a fool.
Just start. Do not fight
The pen is just a tool. 

A pencil is much better
I can erase the ill-place word.
The words are only letters
Keep going, undeterred. 

What shall I write?
I cannot think of words to bring.
Lead your thoughts to the light
And let your words take wing. 

The next poem was The Laugh by Michael Laskey.  For this we were asked to write about a human expression or reaction including something unexpected.  Here's mine:

Tears

A kind word,
a word of encouragement,
well-meant and well received,
provoked a depth of feeling,
an unthought-of release
of past hurts and criticism. 

Not harsh words,
but words full of kindness,
that destroyed the chains
that bound the hurts
of the past and released
unexpected tears.

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

More poetry. One photo

And the photo isn't mine!

I spent another very productive couple of hours on a Write Poetry zoom call run by Sara-Jane Arbury. You may remember me mentioning her last month.

(c) Element5digital

Again we did 3 exercises.For each exercise Sara-Jane introduced us to a poem, talked about its form, language and punctuation and set us off to write a poem of our own.

The first exercise was to write something about a first experience or step.

First Day 

Bag unpacked, reading books primed
ready to be heard.
Pencils sharpened, crayons
corralled in tins upon the desk.
Small tables, small chairs
for small people. 

The smell of disinfectant.
Why do school toilets smell the same
whatever the school? 

The bell tolls. The day begins
with registration. Each child
acknowledging their presence
to the teacher. A new term for them.
A new job for me. 

The second was about watching somebody who doesn't know you are watching them.  It was suggested we start with 'I see you'.

I see you growing

In your ballet dress I see you
Twirling and smiling
Lost in the wonder
of the dance. 

Sometimes dressed as Elsa
Being a princess. Frozen
on a screen as Mummy
takes a photo. 

I see you cutting up cucumber
And putting snacks in a box
ready for daycare.
Mummy’s little helper. 

I see you colouring in pictures
in a colouring book
whilst you wait for your brothers
to finish their martial art. 

I see you.
But I can’t touch you.
I see you in a photo. In a video
your mummy shares with me. 

I can’t reach through the screen
to touch you 12000 miles away.
But, my beautiful granddaughter
I see you growing. 

 

The last exercise was writing about a place that was deep inside you.  The example was Orkney/This Life by Andrew Greig.   Coincidentally I have been doing an online Masterclass called Essence of Identity with Donna Watson, where one of the modules was about sense of place.

A sense of place 

You have called me.
You have invited me.
Set a table before me
covered with life-giving food. 

You have called me.
You have invited me
to walk in the river,
A river set in the middle of the street
in the middle of the city. 

You have called me.
You have invited me to view
the trees on either side of the river.
Their life-giving leaves
bring healing for the nations. 

You have called me.
You have invited me
into your family.
Adopted me.
Called me your own. 

You have called me.
You have invited me.
You have set eternity
in this human heart. 

Thank you for joining me today
Bernice